


Take Care

by aztecwarfareandcrumping



Category: Vikings - Fandom
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Caring, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Family, Gen, but it's okay nothing happens, vikings taking care of athelstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 13:40:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12109929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aztecwarfareandcrumping/pseuds/aztecwarfareandcrumping
Summary: The Lothbroks learn how to care for their pet priest.





	Take Care

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, it's me. I hope to be posting more frequently now.
> 
> I have fallen into the Vikings fandom headfirst and years late, but I am loving it. The attempted sexual assault is brief and hopefully less traumatizing than what is shown in the show, but I didn't want it to catch anyone off-guard.

Athelstan did not like leaving the farm. Occasionally Ragnar asked him to accompany him to Kattegat, but Athelstan felt awkward and clumsy amongst all of the northmen. At the farm, at least, he could hide behind his chores and pretend he fit in, but in Kattegat he stood out and incited whispers. Ragnar’s family had been exceptionally kind to him, and Athelstan couldn’t help thanking God that Ragnar and not some other had claimed him. There were still times he was painfully reminded of his place, but on a whole the family was welcoming and patient. 

Gyda was his favorite. Quieter than her brother, the small maiden had appointed herself as the monk’s guardian. Every day she would say, “come, priest” and show him some new chore, patiently watching and teaching him until he was comfortable with the new skill. In the evenings, she insisted he help her with some task, sitting close and demanding stories from his land. At first he had been scared, worried tales of his God would result in a beating, but Ragnar simply shifted around the fire to watch them over his cup of ale. Gyda listened with rapt attention until Lagertha sent her to bed, or her eyes closed in exhaustion and she tipped forward into Athelstan’s lap. The first time it had happened, Athelstan sat very still, an alarmed look on his face as he glanced between the girl’s parents, his hands held awkwardly out to his sides as if to prove that he would not touch her. Ragnar laughed at him, and Lagertha patiently gathered her daughter into her arms and carried her to bed.

 

One evening as they sat beside the fire, Athelstan holding yarn for Gyda to wind into a ball, Gyda looked at him appraisingly and then asked, “Do you wish to find a wife, priest?”

Athelstan smiled a little wryly. “No, Gyda. Monks do not take wives. Besides, who would take me as a husband with my silly accent and stumbling speech?”

 “I like your accent,” she asserted. “And a man needn't talk well to be a good husband. You have learned our language very well, now. You hardly make mistakes anymore.”

 Athelstan ducked his head, hiding a smile.

“I was just thinking you should find a wife before Svanhild corners you.”

Athelstan nearly dropped the yarn he was holding. “What?”

“Svanhild,” Gyda continued, casual and honest. “She lives at the next farm and I have seen her watching you while you work.”

Athelstan lowered his eyes, watching the yarn leaving the skein he held stretched between his hands. 

“Do not worry,” Gyda stated. “I will protect you.”

Athelstan smiled, and resolved to be more wary while working outside. 

 

After Gyda mentioned it, Athelstan was more aware of young eyes watching him as he fed the pigs or washed clothes. Sometimes the girl would come up and try to chat with him, flipping her hair over her shoulder and looking at him intensely. She was older than Gyda, starting to look more like a woman than a girl, and Athelstan supposed she was pretty, had he been free to choose a mate. As it was, he had a good life here, and they allowed him to stay true to his vows. He would not jeopardize his place. 

Gyda was always quieter on the days that Athelstan talked to Svanhild. 

As the leaves turned and the days grew shorter, Svanhild grew bolder and visited more frequently. Athelstan kept busy while she talked, seemingly charmed by his accent and curious about his home. It was not the same to tell her stories, for Gyda was always attentive and solemn, while Svanhild giggled at him. She had begun to follow him about as he worked, undeterred by his lack of attention. Even if it made him blush, Athelstan supposed he couldn’t do anything about his devoted shadow. What was a slave to say to a free woman?

 

All was well enough until one day when the axe broke while Athelstan was chopping wood. 

“I need to replace it,” he explained, turning away from the girl and walking to the shed behind the house. He wasn’t aware he was being followed until he turned around with the new handle and found himself face to face with his bright-eyed shadow. She was standing very close and Athelstan felt his cheeks redden as he tried to back up and stumbled over a fishing pole. 

“Did I startle you? I’m sorry.” Svanhild giggled, looking at him from under her lashes.

“It-it’s fine, sorry, I just… I got the handle.” Athelstan held the piece of wood between them, backing up until his back hit the wall.   


“So you have.” The girl advanced, eyes not leaving his face.

“I’ve really got to… I’ve got work, see, and-and Lagertha-“

“Shhhhh,” she cut him off, a finger to his lips.

Athelstan swallowed, breath panicky in his chest. He couldn’t very well push her away, and he knew how slaves were used in this world. Prayers raced through his head as she stalked closer, and Athelstan felt very much like a mouse cornered by a big barn cat. 

Just as Svanhild leaned towards him, the shed door crashed open and Gyda stood, outlined by sunlight, more beautiful to Athelstan in that moment than any picture of his Savior. 

“Just what do you think you’re doing with my priest, Svanhild?” she thundered, every inch the daughter of Ragnar Lothbrok. “He is not yours to touch, and he has not sought your affections. Now leave him in peace before I cook your entrails for supper.”

Svanhild lost no time in retreating, and Gyda watched her leave with satisfaction. She turned to Athelstan, her eyes still sharp as Lagertha’s, and the monk would have scrambled backwards had he not been frozen to the spot in awe of his little protector. The girl threw her arms around his waist childishly, nuzzling under his chin, and Athelstan let out a shaky breath as his heart began to slow. 

“I told you I would protect you,” she whispered, her tiny body against his.

Athelstan would have thanked her if he could have found his voice. 

 

“I saved Athelstan today.” Gyda proudly announced at dinner, her hand gently resting on Athelstan’s wrist. 

The monk froze, frightened that perhaps somehow it was his fault and that Ragnar or Lagertha would be angry.

“Is that so, little one?” Ragnar asked, his eyes mischievous. “And what did you save him from? Was it a sea monster? Perhaps a wolf?”

“Even worse, father. Svanhild.” Gyda’s little fingers tightened around Athelstan’s wrist, and he leaned against her shoulder in comfort without thinking. 

The knowing groans and sighs around the table spoke to the reputation of his admirer, but Athelstan couldn’t help from anxiously blurting out, “I never sought her out, she wouldn’t leave me alone, and I thought it rude-I didn’t know if… She kept-“  


“Hush, priest,” Lagertha spoke, laughter in her eyes, even though her mouth was serious. 

Ragnar reached out a rough hand to stroke the side of Athelstan’s head with a laugh. “We are proud of you, Gyda, for protecting one of our own. I shall surely want to hear the story tonight by the fire.”  


Gyda glowed with pride, and Athelstan nudged his little shield-maiden thankfully. 

 

\----

 

Björn was sullen and ornery, like any boy his age. There was a reason Lindisfarne did not usually take younger boys (Athelstan remembered the older Brothers teasing him about his own youthful days). The monk tried to win him over, but he was unable to help Björn practice with his little sword, and Björn seemed to think himself too old for the stories that kept Gyda so rapt each night. He was more likely to scoff at Athelstan’s God or tease the monk for some perceived weakness. The distance between them bothered Athelstan for some reason he could not understand, so he set about to remedy it. 

“Björn, will you take me hunting?” 

The boy looked up, his eyebrows drawing together in a grimace. “What good should you be?”

Athelstan tried not to bristle. “Surely I can carry what you catch, at the very least. And maybe I will not be so terrible as you think.” 

Björn scoffed, but ultimately did not refuse. Ragnar watched them pack with amused eyes, most likely sensing Athelstan’s hesitancy as always. 

“Be careful that you do not shoot the priest, Björn.” he teased, turning away from their preparations.

Gyda had packed Athelstan’s pouch, and handed it to him with a solemn expression. “Ullr be with you,” she intoned.

Athelstan swallowed his reply of, “and also with you.”

 

The woods were quiet, and Athelstan found that he enjoyed trailing Björn, eyes wide and taking in his surroundings. Athelstan thought he was beginning to blend in with the other pagans from his time here, but the terrain was still new to him. The two walked in silence for several hours, before Björn decreed it time for lunch in a clearing filled with dappled golden sunlight. 

Athelstan gave thanks for the food, and if Björn arranged his share of the food until the monk finished, neither of them mentioned it.

“Do you know stories about Ullr?” Athelstan asked, when Björn had stretched onto his back in the soft grass after the meal. 

“Of course, priest.” The biting tone the boy usually used was gone, replaced by something closer to the way Ragnar talked to Athelstan.

“Can you tell me one?”

Björn was silent for so long that Athelstan was about to stand to pack the remains of his lunch when the boy finally spoke again.

Although the afternoon was peaceful, the trip was not altogether a success for Athelstan. It was hard to move silently through the undergrowth in his habit, and the monk managed to scare away many rabbits before Björn frustratedly left him to sit on a log and wait for him. They returned home with several rabbits, but Athelstan felt chastised, though Björn had been surprisingly kind about the whole ordeal. 

 

“It _is_ embarrassing,” he insisted to Björn as they both splashed in the fjord, washing off the blood from cleaning the rabbits. Gyda had promised them a stew, if only they did the dirty work. “If I am ever a free man again, how should I support myself?” 

It was a thought that had been gnawing at him recently, his dependency on Ragnar and his desire to be free once more.

Björn shrugged, wrinkling his nose. “There are other ways to make money, priest. Not all of us are gifted hunters.” 

It was a surprisingly magnanimous answer from the boy. 

 

When Lagertha complimented the soup and Ragnar asked how the hunt had gone, Athelstan was amazed the Björn didn’t take the opportunity to tease him for his lack of prowess.

“It went well,” he said, shrugging lightly. “The priest can carry more than he appears.” 

And that was all that was said on the matter.

 

Days later, Athelstan was sitting on his cot, having finished his chores and taking a moment to himself before finding Lagertha. There was a great commotion outside, and then Björn strode in, all the way back to Athelstan’s little corner.

“Here,” he grunted, shoving something small and feathered against Athelstan’s chest. “He is too small to survive out with the others. He is of no use to me.”

Athelstan looked down at the gosling in his hands, and it gently whistled at him. 

“But what am I-“

“She will grow well enough if she is cared for, but I do not have time for special care.” 

He turned away, but before Athelstan could object, he added, “A man might make a good living selling goose eggs.”

Athelstan watched the boy leave, his mouth slightly gaping.

 

After that, Athelstan took very good care of the goose. Sometimes he caught Björn watching them with satisfaction, but the boy always looked away and scowled if Athelstan met his eyes. Gyda helped Athelstan feed the gosling and instructed him to keep it warm at night. Athelstan gained a tiny shadow, for the goose seemed to have imprinted and insisted on following him around, her tiny whistles becoming more clamorous as she grew. 

 

When Athelstan returned from selling the first eggs from his goose, the gold still clutched in his hands, Björn met his eyes proudly. 

“You see, priest? Not everyone has to be a great hunter.”

Athelstan stared after the boy in wonder, and then laughed to himself.

 

\----

 

Despite his hair growing out (Gyda played with it in the evenings, braiding it and twisting it around her fingers), Athelstan still clung to his robes. He knew they were an inconvenience, and he was always tripping over them while trying to work outside, but it felt like the last vestige of his old life, and he was not eager to part with it. 

 

When she saw him stumbling in the yard, Lagertha questioned him about it.

“You need new clothes, priest.” she said, her usually brusqueness catching him off guard. 

“I haven’t any other clothes,” Athelstan returned, walking more carefully across the yard to the pig pen. 

“You are always tripping. And you stand out in Kattegat.”

Athelstan blinked. “Yes, that’s… that is why we wear them. To show we do not belong in this world.”

Lagertha thought on this for a moment, leaning against the gate. “But you are one of us now.”

Athelstan deliberately straightened and turned to her. “I cannot change who I am as simply as putting on trousers and furs. I am not one of you.” 

Lagertha didn’t seem offended, but she let him be after that.

 

It wasn’t that he disliked his life here, but something within Athelstan felt that changing out of his habit would put an end to any hope that someday he might return to his own country. Not that he thought about it often, there wouldn’t be anything left for him, but the thought of never seeing England again twisted something inside of him and sent him pouring over his book with renewed vigor. 

 

“Are you happy here, priest?” Gyda asked him one evening, having tired of braiding his hair and pushed herself to lean against his side by the fire.

Aware suddenly of the whole family’s eyes on him, Athelstan tipped his cheek against Gyda’s head and hummed. 

“Yes, Gyda.” 

“I would miss mother and father terribly if I were taken from them.”

Athelstan’s chest stung at the thought, his arm tightening around the thin girl beside him. He had ceased finding it odd that he should be so protective of those who had taken him from his home, and had thrown himself wholeheartedly into trying to live the love of Christ.

“I did not have a mother and father like you, so it is not so bad. And God is my father no matter where I live,” he tried to reassure her.

Gyda was quiet for a moment, fingers tangled in the sleeve of his robe.

“You will be cold in winter if you do not get new clothes,” she stated seriously, looking up at him with a worried expression.

Athelstan’s eyes met Lagertha’s across the fire. 

“Yes, I know.”

 

Several weeks later, Athelstan found himself in Kattegat with Lagertha, helping cart and carry yarn to sell and trade. The warm pride of having helped make the yarn outweighed his usual reticence to wander the market, and Lagertha had pressed a coin into his hand and told him to find something for himself before they headed back home. Entranced by the colorful silks at a stall (he thought they would make Gyda smile, and thus be a very worthy thing to spend his coin on), Athelstan didn’t notice the men behind him until they grabbed him by the hood of his habit and pulled him off balance. 

“And who’s are you?” they leered at him, and Athelstan did not understand what they wanted, but he knew he did not like it. His breath stopped in his throat and his eyes strayed to the ground, the slavish response that he nearly had forgotten in the kind company of Ragnar’s family.

“Foreign, aren’t you? No matter, you don’t need to speak for us to get what we wants.” 

Rough hands spun him and Athelstan found himself slammed against an empty stall, stars sparking in front of his eyes before he was suddenly brought back to himself by the feeling of his robe being hiked up. He was protesting in his own language before he could think, trying to kick and flail and free himself. He still did not understand what was happening to him, but he had seen slaves with dull eyes who flinched when they were touched, and his words began to turn into heaving sobs of noise.  

Suddenly there was no one behind him and he slumped to the ground, pulling his habit around him, tucking himself into the smallest ball that he could manage. He heard the sounds of a scuffle above him, and then all was as quiet as a marketplace could be. A hand landed on his shoulder, and Athelstan scrambled back until his eyes locked on Lagertha’s face.

“Come, priest. We will go home.”

Relief flooded Athelstan’s body, and he walked very close to Lagertha the whole way home.

 

All was well, no real harm had been done, but Athelstan stayed very near the house for several days, aware of Ragnar’s gaze upon him, and Gyda following him when he ventured outside to feed the animals. No one spoke to him about it, and he was absurdly thankful. 

 

When a new tunic and a pair of trousers were folded beside his bed one morning, Athelstan was not offended. It was hard to strip off his habit, but when Lagertha’s eyes swept over his new clothes with pride, Athelstan understood.

Lagertha’s hand stole into his hair to hold him possessively for a second before releasing him.

“You are one of us, priest. And now they will know.”

Athelstan should not have felt so contented. 

 

\----

 

Since being named Earl, Ragnar had become much busier. Athelstan understood, he saw the pressures Ragnar was under, his mind swam at all of the meetings and preparations the new title entailed, but a small part of him couldn’t help but miss the quiet evenings in the farmhouse, pressed close together for warmth, the norseman’s sharp eyes trained on him. He knew Earl Haraldson had not been a good leader, and was very thankful that the village had someone like Ragnar to take care of it, but he felt unsure of his place in the large longhouse the family now occupied.

Lagertha and the children seemed to have transitioned easily, setting up spaces for themselves and getting to work weaving and making what they couldn’t salvage from their farm. Athelstan spent his days drifting through the halls, trying to make himself useful, but finding himself redundant now that there were so many slaves and servants jumping to do Ragnar’s bidding. If he could only have Ragnar’s attention for one moment, to renew their conversation about his freedom, maybe he could have understood what his place was, here. But the closest he got to Ragnar was when he would stand to the side of the throne, their eyes would meet, Ragnar would smile warmly at him, and then go back about his business. 

The evenings seemed colder. As terrifying as it had once seemed to him, Athelstan had gotten used to his little cot in the corner, able to hear the breathing of his new family, the air warmed from their proximity. They had given him a small room off of the great hall, but it was still bare and impersonal, due to his lack of personal belongings. When Ragnar had stopped by in one of his spare moments, he had looked around the room, offering Athelstan a smile. 

“What a change, eh, priest? I am sure you are glad for your privacy.”

Athelstan had tried to protest, unsure what he was trying to articulate. 

“Surely you don’t wish to change your mind about our invitation?” Ragnar had teased him, his eyes lighting up and some of the care lining his brow dropping away.

Athelstan had blushed and looked away until Ragnar left the room. 

 

Athelstan couldn’t get warm. It didn’t matter how many furs he piled on his bed, how many pairs of Gyda’s socks he layered on his feet, he could not seem to keep the heat under his blankets. Slinging a fur around his shoulders, he padded towards the great hall, intent on huddling near the fire until his teeth stopped chattering. 

Laugher sounded ahead of him, and Athelstan’s heart sank. Ragnar and a small group of men were crowded about the fire, laughing and trading stories over ale. Athelstan turned to leave, until a voice halted him.

“Priest, come and join us!” Ragnar sounded merry, and Athelstan’s chest twisted remembering long nights of camaraderie, too much ale, and stories in the farmhouse.

Unable to retreat now, Athelstan shuffled forward. Ragnar scooted over on his bench, gesturing for the monk to join him. Athelstan settled self-consciously on the bench, pulling the fur closer around him. Looking around the fire he saw some familiar faces, but he was still trying to get used to how many people seemed to always be about now. Torstein was finishing a story about one of his recent conquests, Floki jokingly covering Björn’s ears, the other men laughing. Despite being in the middle of them, Athelstan felt very alone. Another man started a story about one of his first raids, and Athelstan looked around the group, feeling small and useless. He was not a warrior, he did not fit here. No wonder Ragnar had not had time for him.

As the story ended, Athelstan stood to return to his solitary room. Ragnar’s arm slung warmly around his shoulders, bringing the monk back to his side and listing sideways against his bulk. 

“My priest here has a story,” he decreed, sounding delighted. 

Athelstan tried to push away, hurt turning to anger. He was not in the mood to be humiliated tonight. But Ragnar kept his arm around him as if his struggle was nothing at all. 

“Tell them about the time the tide came in, priest.”

Athelstan stilled. 

It felt like years ago, but the memories came rushing back. Sitting by the hearth, Björn and Gyda clamoring for a story until he reached deep back into his mind and told them about one of his few adventures at Lindisfarne. He remembered Ragnar watching from the corner, his eyes proud and warm on him. 

He protested despite himself. Surely the norsemen would not be interested in his exploits.

The men all replied that they wanted to hear the story, and Athelstan found himself with a new mug of ale. He glanced at Ragnar, who smiled encouragingly, and took a deep breath.

“Lindisfarne is an island,” he began, and the men settled into their chairs, watching him expectantly. 

He told the story of the one path leading to the island, how it flooded with water every time the tide came in, and how the monks would gauge the tide before they would travel to the mainland for supplies. One summer the monks had miscalculated, and he and a few other brothers had found themselves walking back over wet sand, the tide rolling in quickly. The supplies and monks would have been lost if not for Athelstan’s quick thinking and ability to swim. Unaccustomed to the norse style of storytelling filled with bragging, Athelstan was interrupted frequently by Ragnar “improving” his story. By the end, the men were firing questions at him, intrigued that he could swim, questioning how someone as small as him had been able to save several men, and looking at him with a new light of appreciation in their eyes. 

Ragnar’s arm rested heavy around his shoulders, and Athelstan shivered as he felt warm breath on his ear. 

“Thank you for sharing your story, my friend.” he murmured, swaying with drink. 

Athelstan smiled despite himself, leaning against the larger man. He was no longer cold. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Sorry for wonky timelines, bc I can never tell how much time has passed in the show. 
> 
> \- The story Athelstan tells was inspired by an interview with George Blagden where he talked about the monks getting washed away by the tide. 
> 
> \- The convenient cut when Björn starts talking about Ullr is because I was reading a lot of conflicting things about him and basically historians don't really know much about that god except for hunting and maybe ice skating.


End file.
